Frog

Because my wife, Little Lion, was well past the prime age for a first pregnancy, even the doctors at the Sino-American Jiabao Women and Children’s Hospital, reputedly holders of PhDs from British and American medical universities, refused to be in attendance during her labour. Naturally, we thought of Gugu. Old ginger is still the spiciest. My wife trusted no one more than Gugu, whom she had assisted in countless births and who had witnessed Gugu’s composure during many crises.

Little Lion went into labour when she was working the night shift at the bullfrog-breeding farm. By rights, she should have been at home resting at that stage in her pregnancy, but she stubbornly refused to take that advice. When she walked through the marketplace, preceded by an enormous belly, she was the recipient of idle talk and of envy. People who knew her greeted her with: Dear Sister-in-law, why aren’t you home in bed? Brother Tadpole is a cruel man! What’s the big deal? she’d reply. When the fruit is ripe it drops on its own. Farming wives routinely have their babies in cotton fields or in groves of trees. It’s the pampered women who have all the problems. Old-time practitioners of Chinese medicine share her views. People within earshot mostly nod their heads in agreement. Hardly anyone voices a different opinion to her face.

When the news reached me I rushed over to the breeding farm, where Yuan Sai had already sent my cousin to fetch Gugu, who arrived in a white surgical gown and mask, her messy hair tucked into a white cap. The look of intense excitement in her eyes reminded me of an old packhorse. A woman in white led Gugu to a secret delivery room, while I drank tea in Yuan Sai’s office.

A black leather, high-backed chair rose up behind a burgundy-coloured desk the size of a ping-pong table in the centre of the office. A stack of books on the desk was, surprisingly, topped by a little red Chinese flag. Even a bandit can be a patriot, my friend, he said sombrely, anticipating my question.

He poured tea into the special service and said proudly, This is Da Hong Pao, a fine tea from Mount Wuyi, and while it may not be the gold standard, it is of such high quality that I won’t serve it even for the county chief. But I’m serving it to you to prove I have style.

Noticing that I wasn’t paying attention, he said, There’s nothing to worry about when I’m in charge. Nothing can go wrong. We don’t normally ask your aunt to come over. She is Northeast Gaomi Township’s patron saint. When she’s on the scene, the results can be stated in eight words: Mother and son doing fine, everyone is happy.